[ ... Poor Rufus. Dorothy normally likes filling silence with almost meaningless chatter, but that's mostly because the quiet individuals she knew usually needed a nudge, a cheerful presence to knock them out of their dour mindsets.
But Rufus is different in that regard. He doesn't want to be encouraged, and so Dorothy doesn't speak up. She watches him in that drunken haze, as aware as she's allowed to be, but she also sinks into that silence. ]
[His mind can only reach so far back. But he's stubbornly clung to a certain mindset for centuries now, and it puts rest off the table when there's work to be done. He recalls how he was harassed to do otherwise by Elsa earlier and frowns rather deeply.]
[It takes him a while to hear everything she has to say, and longer still to parse her words. He stares straight ahead. Is that sincerity he hears?
A part of him rankles at the thought. It can't be.
All the same, there's a part of him that holds him back from spitting out a disagreement in a drunken fit. Strange, that his lowered inhibition would stop him from voicing his doubts. He stands there, expression dubious, for what feels like an eternity before tearing himself away from the scene to wobble elsewhere.
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But Rufus is different in that regard. He doesn't want to be encouraged, and so Dorothy doesn't speak up. She watches him in that drunken haze, as aware as she's allowed to be, but she also sinks into that silence. ]
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[ Rufus, you'll get wrinkles. ]
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There's a lengthy stretch of silence before he answers.]
I don't want help.
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[ Is it fine?? ]
I won't help you if you don't need it.
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[ To that, Dorothy stares at him. That... can't be right. No one's ever helped him just because it was the right thing to do?
Maybe that's just drunken rambling, but in her own haze, she can't help but find that... troubling? Is she irritated? She can't quite tell. ]
I won't charge you. You can charge me if I lie about that. [ Get more money out of it, sure. It's fine.
She knows what it's like to have to help yourself because no one else will, but that doesn't make it okay. ]
If you ask me for help, I'll help you.
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A part of him rankles at the thought. It can't be.
All the same, there's a part of him that holds him back from spitting out a disagreement in a drunken fit. Strange, that his lowered inhibition would stop him from voicing his doubts. He stands there, expression dubious, for what feels like an eternity before tearing himself away from the scene to wobble elsewhere.
The day he asks for help . . . won't be today.]